


History Repeats Itself

by howler32557038



Series: The Handler [1]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, HYDRA Trash Party, Hydra (Marvel), Medical Examination, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Non-Consensual Electroconvulsive Therapy, Other, Stockholm Syndrome, prostate examination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 02:20:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3711169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>3...32...3255…Then what? The Asset tried to think, to remember, but the next number in the sequence wouldn’t come. It was a game he liked to play, sometimes. There had been a short sequence of numbers. He didn’t know what they were, or where he’d heard them, but that didn’t matter. He’d been playing the game for a long time. No matter how many times they wiped him, the numbers always seemed to come back, even if nothing else did. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d been in the chair - enough to remember that it was an inevitability, looming at the end of each long assignment, but he never knew exactly when it was coming. There was never any warning. So he began to play a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	History Repeats Itself

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howelleheir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howelleheir/gifts).



3...

32...

3255…

Then what? The Asset tried to think, to remember, but the next number in the sequence wouldn’t come. It was a game he liked to play, sometimes. There had been a short sequence of numbers. He didn’t know what they were, or where he’d heard them, but that didn’t matter. He’d been playing the game for a long time. No matter how many times they wiped him, the numbers always seemed to come back, even if nothing else did. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d been in the chair - enough to remember that it was an inevitability, looming at the end of each long assignment, but he never knew exactly when it was coming. There was never any warning.

So he began to play a game. He would never remember the numbers right away, but there was always a moment, a few days after he was wiped, when he would suddenly realize that there were numbers. After that, he would return to the thought of that missing sequence, hundreds of times, every day. The goal was to remember the whole sequence before the next time they wiped him. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever succeeded.

It was the only secret that he kept. The handlers and technicians didn’t know about the numbers. He wouldn’t say them out loud. For all the power they had over him, they still couldn’t see his thoughts. He never wrote them down. He never wrote anything down. He wasn’t certain he remembered how to write, anyway. And so the numbers became special to him. He locked them away and kept them all for himself, so that no one could take them away. They were his. The only thing that belonged to him. 70.

325570…

This round was looking like a loss for the Asset.

He’d just finished a mission in Serbia. Three level-five targets. One at a time. The first one, a man. Tall, heavy-set. No hair, crooked teeth. Smelled like stale sweat and some sort of heavy, cloying after-shave - the Asset had smelled it when he’d held the man in a headlock. When he’d stopped struggling, his massive body going limp against the Weapon, the Asset had laid him gently on the concrete floor and put a bullet right between his eyes.

Then, a thin man. Different warehouse. Easier kill. No struggle. The man had been talking on a cellular phone, shouting at someone in Russian. _Mne nuzhno moi den'gi._ Someone owed him money. _Ya ub'yu tebya. Poshel na khuy_ \-- The Asset didn’t wait to hear who the man wanted to kill. He had been too distracted by his loud cursing to hear his own death approaching. The Asset saw no need to break this man’s neck. Two bullets to the back of the skull. They’d sent the man tumbling down a flight of stairs made of rusty metal grates. He had landed on his back at the bottom, splayed legs pointing one direction and torso twisted toward the Asset, in the opposite direction. The Asset had noted with mild interest that one bullet had exited directly through the left eye socket, and the other had come very close to exiting through the right eye socket. A few centimeters off, but it was nearly symmetrical.

Third target. This one wore a suit. Big, muscular, with shiny dark hair that smelled like petroleum jelly. He had fought back. The Asset side-stepped the man’s two wild, panicked gunshots and took hold of his arm with the Weapon and then punched hard with his right fist, listening to the wet noise the man’s elbow made, followed by the clatter of the gun as it hit the wooden floor. He had twisted the arm behind the man’s back and pressed his own gun to the back of the target’s head, ready to execute him, but then he’d become curious. “Derzhite yeshche.” _Hold still_. He took ten paces back, until he was a far away as he’d been from target number two, then took his shots. The man fell forward, dead. The Asset turned him over with the toe of his boot. Both eyes, gone. He had felt satisfied.

Something about that feeling of satisfaction had reminded him of the numbers. How satisfied he would feel if he could remember them. 3255. The first four had come to him then, as he stared down at the man’s empty eye-sockets and at the splatter against the far wall. He had felt good.

Now, he was almost out of time. He had held on to those four numbers in the van. Repeated them a hundred times in his head on the helicopter. Tried to remember the next number on the jet. On the tarmac, he’d decided that 7 sounded right, but he couldn’t be sure yet. Then, a short ride in the back of another dark van.

He had forgotten to think about the numbers for a while, heart racing, knowing he was headed back to the techs, already anticipating the confusing questions and the mission report. He made himself focus on the op that he’d just finished, recalling every detail so that the questions would be easier.

At the Vault, he’d been ordered to hand over all of his guns and knives and gear. A STRIKE operative took them. He hated letting them go, but he knew they’d give them back, and they’d be clean. A tech ordered him to strip off his clothes, and he handed those over as well. He had pointed out a snapped buckle on his vest to the tech that had been damaged when he fought the first target. The tech noted it, but didn’t say anything to him.

Another tech took him to a side-room, bare, with a drain in the floor, which he’d automatically stood over. The tech hosed all the dirt and blood off of him, and the Asset hadn’t minded. The water pressure at the Vault wasn’t high enough to be painful, and it was never as cold as it had been at the Russian safe-houses. He turned when he was told. When the tech handed him a towel, he noticed that it was a little softer than usual. He took a long time drying himself off, enjoying the feeling of the cloth against his skin. The tech was patient, and didn’t tell him to hurry. He handed the towel back to him, wondering if he should say thank you. The tech lead him out of the room before he had a chance.

Another side room. This one had a table in the middle, covered in stiff white paper, and a white cart with drawers. He sat on the edge of the table and waited. Another tech came in. He could almost remember this one. Bow-tie. Light hair. The tech looked him over, asked about bruises and cuts and where they’d come from. He remembered the answers, mostly, and the tech didn’t seem unhappy. Asked if he had felt dizzy or lightheaded and shined a flashlight in his eyes. He said no. Heart-rate. Blood-pressure. Blood sample.

The Asset bled a little more than usual from the crook of his flesh arm. The tech put a band-aid over the tiny puncture. Swabbed his mouth. Looked at his teeth and throat, then inside his ears and nose. Pressed his fingers underneath the Asset’s jaw-bone. Tested his reflexes, then rotated his neck, wrists, shoulders, and elbows, and asked if there was pain in any of his joints. He said no.

The tech ordered him to lie back on the table, then pushed his fingers into his abdomen, feeling for organs, asking if any of the touches felt painful. The Asset said no again, but wondered if he’d be able to tell if they did hurt. The white gloves felt cool and smooth against his skin, and that was the only feeling he was aware of. The man rotated his his left hip, left knee, and left ankle, asking about joint pain again. No pain. The same on the right side, and asked again. A new answer. Yes. Right knee. The tech turned toward the cart and wrote something down on a piece of paper. The Asset turned his head to look, but the words were too small to read.

The tech ordered him to scoot down to the end of the table. The Asset obeyed, but the paper stuck to his back, which was still still damp from the hose, and tore. He froze for a moment, wondering if the tech would be angry, but the man in the bow-tie hadn’t noticed. He was changing gloves. The Asset hoped he wouldn’t be angry. He would have to behave very well, just in case the tech saw the paper and it upset him, so he tried to remember how to do this part of the examination.

He moved as close to the end of the table as he could, leaving his heels braced against the corners. The tech didn't seem displeased. He looked him over, pressed against his testicles, like he’d done to his abdomen, and asked again about discomfort. He said no again. Actually, it was pleasant. But the tech had only asked about discomfort, so the Asset didn’t tell him about the feeling.

The tech reached into one of the drawers on the cart and took out a swab and a white tube, and then removed two small pieces of glass from a plastic box and set them out on top of the cart. The pleasant feeling returned momentarily as the tech drew back his foreskin, but it was gone just as quickly as the swab pushed into his urethra. The Asset bit the tip of his tongue as the swab twisted and was drawn back out, and his eyes watered. He shifted uncomfortably as the tech deposited the sample between the glass slides, letting out the breath he’d been holding.

“I know, that part’s no fun, is it?” the man with the bow-tie smiled.

Is it? That made it a question. That meant he expected a response. “No, sir,” the Asset guessed. The tech continued to smile. His answer had been satisfactory. Agreeing was usually safe.

“Turn on your side, please.”

The Asset turned quickly onto his side, because the man had said please. The politeness surprised him, and he hurried to obey. The paper under his metal arm tore more, and he winced, but the tech, once again, said nothing. Had the man with the bow-tie always been so kind? The Asset wished he could remember. The man pushed on his left foot, and he pulled his knee up to his chest and held it there, hoping that was what the cue had meant.

The Asset didn’t flinch away when the tech’s gloved finger, slick and cold, brushed between his legs, pressing in gently. He knew he didn’t like this procedure, although he couldn’t remember it clearly, but the tech wasn’t hurting him or shouting at him, and he was thankful. There was a big mirror on the wall he was now facing, and he looked at it to distract himself. His hair had gotten longer since the last time he’d seen a mirror, and it was wet and messy. He thought his skin might be darker, too. It was a good distraction - he had forgotten what he looked like.

“Deep breath in,” the tech advised. “And let it out.” His finger pressed all the way inside. It wasn’t comfortable, but it didn’t hurt, either. The Asset was grateful the tech had warned him. He wished that the man with the bow-tie was the only tech. He stared toward the mirror for the rest of the procedure, studying the tech’s reflection and hoping he would be able to remember what he looked like. He never wanted to misbehave or malfunction in front of the man with the bow-tie.

He felt the tech remove his finger and heard the gloves snap as he removed them and threw them in a small trash bin. “You can sit up.”

“Thank you, sir,” he said. It wasn’t automatic. He meant it.

The tech took a plastic cup out of one of the drawers, removed the lid, and held it out. “Do you feel like you could give a urine sample?”

The Asset hung his head. He had asked one of his handlers to use the toilet as soon as they’d returned to the Vault. This tech had been gentle and nice, and now he was causing problems. “I don’t think I can right now, sir. I’m sorry.” He forced the quiet words out and waited for the kind man to get angry.

“Here,” the man said, and went to a small sink in the corner of the room. He took a paper cup out of a dispenser and filled it with water. “Come here.” When he said it, it barely sounded like an order. The Asset rose from the table and approached the man quickly, and the man place the full cup in his hands. “Just sip that. Refill it a few times and keep sipping until you feel like you could give me a sample, alright?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

The Asset did as he was instructed. The tech went back to the exam table and tore off the paper, then crumpled it up and put it in the trash with the discarded gloves. The Asset felt relieved. The paper wasn’t important. It was disposable.

The sink was directly next to the big mirror, so he continued to study himself as he drank the water. His hair was very tangled. Maybe one of the techs would give him a comb, later. His eyes were blue. He refilled the cup.  The Weapon looked a little less bright than he remembered, but the maintenance techs would clean it. There was a scrape on his right shoulder where he’d brushed against a brick wall while fighting the first target and a big, purple bruise on his right hip-bone from the same stumble. He refilled the cup again. The water was cold, and it tasted good. He had been thirsty.

The numbers. He had forgotten. The mission was over. He’d handed in all his weapons and gear. He was clean. A tech had performed a physical. The mission report would come next, and then...they would wipe him. They might put him back in cryo. He was almost out of time. How far had he gotten? 3255. Then...7. He had remembered the 7 on the tarmac, and now he was almost sure it sounded right. Silently, he began trying other numbers, looking for the next one. 325571. No. 325572. No. 325573. Maybe. He would try to remember it. 3. It might be 3. 325574. No. 325575. No.

“Ready?”

He had forgotten to refill the cup. He had been distracted by the game, standing dumbly, holding the empty cup a few inches from his mouth. Luckily, he felt like he could give a sample now. The tech gave him the plastic cup again. When he handed it back carefully, it was only just over half-full. He hoped it would be good enough. The tech screwed the cap on. “That’s little dark. I’ll talk to the handlers. They’re not doing a very good job of keeping you hydrated.”

The Asset wasn’t sure what to say to that. He liked water, and he didn’t like being thirsty, but if the handlers got in trouble for not taking care of him, they would be angry. He settled on an easy answer. “Yes, sir.”

After that, the tech motioned for him to follow the guard out. The guard took him back to the main room. As expected, the chair was assembled. The Asset tried to hurry. 325576. No. 325577. No.

Something hit him in the stomach. He looked down. Black shorts. The tech who had been trying to hand them to him looked irritated, so he took them quickly and put them on.

Brock Rumlow - one of the few handlers he always recognized, was sitting on a stool in front of the chair holding a black square in one hand, tapping on it with the other. A computer screen? No. Tablet. He’d seen him with one before. “Sit,” Rumlow ordered.

The Asset sighed. There were no other chairs in the room, besides the one Rumlow was in and the one he least wanted to sit in. 325578. Maybe? Shit. He sat down on the dark leather, as close to the edge as he could. The maintenance techs must have noticed, because they pushed him back until his shoulders met the rest of the chair. It made his stomach hurt, briefly, intensely, but the feeling dulled to minor nausea, and he ignored it.

“Let’s hear it.”

That was how Rumlow asked for a mission report. Beside him, the two maintenance techs had extended the arm-rest from the chair and swivelled it towards them. He laid the Weapon on it and let them work.

Giving the report was easy. He was glad he’d gone over it in his head. Unfortunately, Rumlow didn’t have any questions, which meant he only had until the techs finished working on his arm to remember the other numbers. Rumlow was ignoring him now, tapping on the tablet’s screen, so he allowed his eyes to drift shut, trying to picture the numbers in his head. 325579. No. He went back, tried the 3 and the 8 again, but they looked wrong. Maybe the seven was wrong? He felt his heart-rate rising.

When he opened his eyes, the tech with the bow-tie was back. He had another cart. The Asset watched as the man swabbed his wrist with a cotton ball, slid an IV into the back of his right hand and taped it there. A few monitors followed. The man pressed them firmly into his chest in two places, and then one to each temple. He wanted to ask the man what his name was, but he knew that would be wrong.

He turned his head to watch one of the two monitor screens as they calibrated his heart-rate, blood-pressure, and brain activity. The heart-rate took the longest. It still read 0BPM. The 0 began to flash, and then it read 14, 70, then 81, and it stayed on 81. 0. The 0 had caught the Asset’s attention. He tried it. 325570. Yes. It fit. He wanted to thank the tech with the bow-tie, but the man wouldn’t understand, so he stayed quiet. The man looked at the maintenance techs. “Is he scheduled for a wipe?”

Shit. No. 3255701. 3255702. Almost out of time. And neither of those sounded right.

“Yeah, we’re just finishing up. All the connections look good.”

He heard the plate on the Weapon close. The techs wheeled the tool cart away. The swivelled the arm-rest back into place. One of them moved his foot to press on a pedal under the chair. The sharp pain in his stomach came back as the chair began to collapse underneath him. He couldn’t think. There wasn’t enough time. At the most, he had sixty seconds left, but he was too panicked now. He tried to calm down. Remember. One at a time.

3...

32...

3255…

Then what? The Asset tried to think, to remember, but the next number in the sequence wouldn’t come. It was a game he liked to play, sometimes. There had been a short sequence of numbers. He didn’t know what they were, or where he’d heard them, but that didn’t matter. He’d been playing the game for a long time. No matter how many times they wiped him, the numbers always seemed to come back, even if nothing else did. He wasn’t sure how many times he’d been in the chair - enough to remember that it was an inevitability, looming at the end of each long assignment. No more than forty seconds left.

The man with the bow-tie was back. He was holding a plastic bite-guard. The Asset didn’t want to bite down on it. He wanted to stall. He wanted more time to think. But the man had been so nice. So gentle. He didn’t want to disappoint him, so he made his mouth open, no matter how much he hated it, and bit down, feeling his jaw tremble. The arm and leg-cuffs lowered into place. The shock plates would be next. The chair was humming underneath him. He could hear his heart beating like it wanted out of his chest.

70.

325570…

This round was looking like a loss for the Asset.

“Hang on a minute, please.”

A new voice. Soft in places, sharp in others. Polite, but commanding. Crackling. Aged. The shock plates didn’t come down. The voice had made them stop. The Asset didn’t recognize the voice, but he already liked it.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, and I speak, like, um, no Russian. If any Russian speakers would like to correct any of the phrases and call me an idiot, I would really appreciate it.
> 
> I'm not a doctor and I've never studied medicine. My description of Bucky's physical is just a more awkward and uncomfortable version of sports physicals I've received. If anyone out there studied medicine and would like to point out a glaring error, I welcome it.
> 
> Also, first post! Maybe I should have opened with something a little less...fetish-filled? Oh, well. If I got off on the wrong foot with this, it can only get better from here, right?


End file.
